


Sherlock x Reader: The Reichenbach Fall

by KingOfHearts709



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: F/M, The Reichenbach Fall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-13
Updated: 2015-07-13
Packaged: 2018-04-09 02:59:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4331214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KingOfHearts709/pseuds/KingOfHearts709
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's The Reichenbach Fall...and now you're a part of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note: I never finished this, and don't intend to. I do intend, however, to write each episode into a sort of novel type thing one day.  
> Enjoy this half-baked story. xoxo

"It's what most people do, don't they?" Sherlock asks from atop the roof. "Leave a note." John, from on the street, shakes his head.  
"Leave a note when?" he asks confusedly.  
"Goodbye, John." And with that, Sherlock lowers his mobile.  
"No, don't..." John tries to get through, but you could tell that Sherlock can't hear him. "Sherlock!" And only a mere few seconds after, Sherlock puts his arms wide out and lets himself fall. John watches his best friend fall to the ground.  
Too late.  
Tears fell out your eyes as they were fixated on the man on the telly.  
"No!" you screamed as John had moments before. Sniffling, you paused the episode and tried to gain control of your emotions. It didn't matter that you had already seen The Reichenbach Fall before, it was still heartbreaking every time. Leaning back into the couch, you closed your eyes, the scene of Sherlock's death playing back through your head. God, how you hated Moffat, even though he was probably one of the most brilliant people on the planet.  
And slowly, you drifted into sleep.  
***  
You groaned. Maybe it was a bad idea to fall asleep on your couch. It was unbelievably uncomfortable for some reason...  
Hold on a minute. Did you have a blanket on you before? You didn't think you did. And what was that clinking ahead of you?  
You wrenched your eyes open, your vision partially skewed from looking at a screen for an entire season of Sherlock in one sitting.  
Footsteps. Coming towards you.  
"Oh, good, you're awake," a voice said. A very strangely familiar voice. Sitting up as you gained your vision a little more, your eyes caught on a blurred figure with a jumper and what looked to be two mugs of tea in their hands.  
"Sorry, wait, where am I?" you asked, finding the courage to speak. The next words the voice said were the words you never thought you'd hear.  
"Uh, Baker Street. 221B Baker Street," it said. Finally able to see clearly, you widened your eyes at the assumed actor in front of you. Dressed as John, acting like John, even looking like he thought like John. But it couldn't be John... could it?  
"Martin Freeman?" you asked incredulously. His face showed complete confusion when you replied.  
"Sorry, who's Martin Freeman?" he asked. You squinted. Well, if he didn't know who Martin was, then it had to be...  
"N-nothing, sorry," you stumbled as you gratefully took the mug of tea from his hands shakily and pushed off the blanket. "Just... sort of... tired." John nodded in understanding and continued through the flat. You surveyed it carefully.  
Right, then. Skull, yes. Computer on the desk, violin sitting near the window, and, as always, two armchairs in the midst.  
"Oh, I'm John, by the way," John intercepted from the kitchen doorway. You only nodded shyly, taking a large sip of the tea in your mug.  
Suddenly, more footsteps became present as a man made his way through to the living area. You stared at him in awe, not even noticing your mouth had dropped open. His hair was bedraggled in that adorable way, and his night clothes hung perfectly around his figure.  
It had to be Sherlock. If it wasn't, then you must've not been paying enough attention.  
"John, who is this?" his deep baritone voice rang out as he stopped to study you. You had to keep yourself from screaming in happiness when he took notice of you, suppressing it by closing your eyes and mouth and playing it through in your mind instead.  
"Oh, well, I don't actually know," John replied as he went to sit in his chair. "I found her dead asleep at the bottom of the stairs. Thought I should bring her up, you know, make sure she got... situated." Your eyes still closed, your hands made their way together under your chin subconsciously, fingers keeping the mug in place on the handle. Blame it on watching too much telly. You didn't notice Sherlock walk closer to you, nor did you notice his head move around yours to look at your features. You couldn't hear anything, you were too busy trying to collect yourself and make sure you didn't freak. Suddenly, your eyes snapped open to meet with Sherlock's own blue-grey ones.  
"Well?" you asked in expectation.  
"You watch a lot of telly," he stated. "You write based on the way your hands were set before, and you took on learned behavior from other people, most likely from a TV show. And you are extremely ecstatic right now." You nodded, not even with a flinch.  
"Sherlock!" John said sharply, causing Sherlock to shrug with a frown and proceed to the kitchen, most likely to attempt some sort of experiment with body parts.  
"It's fine, John," you reassured. "I know who you both are, I know what you do, and I might know what you're going to do depending on which case you finished last." You gave John an expectant look.  
"So... you read my blog?" he asked, hoping that you were just some sort of fan of him and Sherlock. You gave a small laugh.  
"Yeah, something like that," you said, lowering your hands. "What was the last case you came back from?"  
"Baskerville," Sherlock interrupted. Your breath hitched a little.  
You knew what was going to happen next.  
"Oh, well, it was good that you solved it," you replied, setting down your tea on the table in front of you.  
"Sorry, what's your name?" John asked.  
"I'm (YN), (YN) (LN)," you claimed as you sat back, crossing your arms. Deciding that you wouldn't move for a while, you turned to prop your feet on the arm and lay your head on the pillows.  
"What are you doing?" John asked annoyedly. "I don't think you should really do that."  
"Why? Sherlock does it," you reiterated, turning your head towards the kitchen to see Sherlock's eyes once again on you.  
"And how would you know that?" he asked, and you noted the partial growl in his tone. He was obviously trying to provoke you.  
"I didn't know, I noticed," you grinned back, using one of his regular excuses to your advantage. He furrowed his brow as he went to his chair, still staring at you.  
"John, dear, are you up here?" a woman's voice came from the direction of the door. You looked to see Mrs. Hudson. She startled when she saw you sprawled on the couch with a smirk. "Oh, hello. Who are you?" You shrugged.  
"Friend of Sherlock's," you started, then paused. "When I say 'friend'..." Trailing off, you shook your head to get back to the subject. "No need to fret, Mrs. Hudson, I'm harmless." You looked up at the ceiling for a moment. "Most of the time." You returned your gaze to the befuddled Mrs. Hudson, who left right after that. You stood up and went to the window, looking out onto the street momentarily before going to Sherlock. Setting your hand on his head, you smiled. He flinched at your touch, bit didn't go to move your hand.  
"You are going to be incredibly useful, Mr. Holmes," you claimed, retreating your hand and looking at John. "You take very good care of him. Both of you." You pointed to both men before making your way to the door.  
"Who are you exactly?" Sherlock asked suddenly, causing you to stop in your tracks and look over at him. A mischievous smile on your face, you leaned in.  
"Oh, well, that would be no fun, would it?" you pointed out, and then left. You had a feeling that Sherlock would be right behind you, guessing that his curiosity would get the better of him.  
Sure enough, you were right.


	2. Chapter 2

Rushing down the steps and out of 221, you breathed in the crisp air. It felt just like heaven. You closed your eyes and took in the moment, realising you hadn't even thought of the fact that you were basically in the TV show. Everything felt so surreal, so perfect.  
Unbelievable.  
"Taxi!" you heard a voice ring out, immediately recognised as Sherlock's. You watched him walk in front of you, a taxi seemingly appearing on the roadside. He opened the door, and you saw that he wasn't getting in, but giving you an expectant look. You tilted your head in confusion.  
"Where am I going?" you asked. He didn't answer, but pointed to the cab demandingly, to which you obeyed without question. Sliding into the seat, you didn't expect Sherlock to come in after you.  
You were now in a confined space with him.  
Just the two of you. Well, besides the cabbie.  
"We're going to Scotland Yard," Sherlock stated as the taxi began to make the trip.  
"What for?" you questioned wonderingly, not entirely sure of the situation. But then you realised that this meant you would get to meet Lestrade. You were realising a lot of things in a short period of time.  
"We need to check your records," Sherlock told you. That's right. If this was a fictional universe, then it was most likely that you didn't exist in their system, and you doubted they could bring up the system to your own world.  
"Why? Have I done something wrong?" you inquired, trying to play dumb even though you knew perfectly well that Sherlock could see through it.  
"You know why." You expected him to say this. The rest of the ride was quiet other than the quiet tapping of your finger on the seat. You automatically tapped out the binary code you saw from the show.  
There is no code...  
If course, having looked it up, the beat sequence formed that phrase. Because there was no code.  
The taxi stopped in front of the Yard, and Sherlock exited, holding open the door for you. Blushing, you went out after him, and the cabbie sped away. The next thing you knew, you were in Lestrade's office across from him.  
"What's your name?" he asked for the third time.  
"I told you, (YN) (LN)," you repeated, then rolled your eyes. "And again, I seriously doubt you'll find me in your system." He gave a long sigh and looked towards Sherlock, who stood surprisingly patient in the corner.  
"I don't know what else you want us to do, Sherlock," he told him. "We took a DNA test, ran her name through the system, we even checked with your brother, Mycroft. She doesn't show up anywhere." Sherlock rolled his eyes in annoyance and went to sit in the chair next to you. God, just being near him made your heart flutter. Turning and putting his hands together, he studied you. You only looked him in the eyes, contemplating their colour as a distraction.  
"They change colour often, it's genetic," Sherlock said, answering your thoughts. You uttered a, "Hm," and brought yourself back to real time.  
This was going to be a long three months.


	3. Chapter 3

The next couple months were filled with cases and, inevitably, the press.  
First was the Reichenbach painting, which only reminded you of the horrible event that was to come. In truth, you didn't mind feeling sad like this, because you knew that Sherlock was going to be alive anyway.  
Next was the man and his family, where after his 'terrifying ordeal', he thanked none other than Sherlock Holmes, who received a tie pin as thanks.  
The last one was your favourite, particularly because Sherlock would wear his signature deerstalker hat. After having put it on, you couldn’t stop yourself from bursting out laughing and pointing to Sherlock’s confused and agitated face.  
Now you were sitting in 221B, seeing as you had somewhat moved in with the two boys and, after getting used to living there, took your best care of them. John looked over the paper as Sherlock looked over his new hat that represented him.  
“Why is it always the hat photograph?” he asked as he punched the inside of the deerstalker in frustration.  
“‘Bachelor John Watson’?” John asked incredulously. “Bachelor, what the hell are they implying?” You looked at John, then at the paper, taking it and reading over the article. It was incredulous, no doubt, and you thought the press was making too big a deal about it. You turned your attention back to the room, only to see Sherlock move around the hat in his hands.  
“Flaps?” he said. “Ear flaps, it’s an ear hat, John!” He threw it at John, then went to sit in his chair. “What do you mean more careful?” John held up the hat, showing it off as if it was some sort piece of art.  
“I mean, this isn’t a deerstalker now,” he explained. “It’s a Sherlock Holmes hat. I mean, you’re not exactly a private detective anymore.” He set the hat in your lap, which you took and set on your head in happiness. John took his thumb and forefinger and set them centimeters apart. “You’re this far from famous!”  
“Oh, it’ll pass,” Sherlock replied as he pressed his hands together and put them over his lips. You scoffed and looked at Sherlock.  
“It better pass, Sherlock,” you cut in. “You know the press will turn, they always do. And they’ll turn to you.” He put his hands down and slapped them on the arms of his chair, taking a quick moment to grimace at the sight of you wearing the hat.  
“It really bothers you two?” he asked.  
“What?” John inquired.  
“What people say.”  
“Yes.”  
“About me? I don’t understand, why would it upset you?” You rolled your eyes as John took the newspaper from you and continued to read it.  
“Just try to lay low, okay?” you told him. “Maybe try to find a little case this week. Stay away from the press and the news.” Sherlock shook his head and went back to his mind palace, the only place he could try to figure things out.  
The next day, John was in the shower and you were in the kitchen across from Sherlock, watching him at the microscope with your head on the table. A beep went off, and you turned to see Sherlock’s phone. When he didn’t go to get it, you gave him an expectant look.  
“It’s your phone,” you told him.  
“Mm, keeps doing that,” he replied distractedly. John came out of the bathroom, rubbing his hair with a towel as his robe swished about. Going to sit in his armchair, he spotted the hanging dummy on a noose, regarding it for a second before turning to that morning’s newspaper.  
“So, did you just talk to him for a really long time?” he asked as he looked over the main headlines. Sherlock looked away at the dummy for a moment before looking at John.  
“Oh, Henry Fishgard never committed suicide,” he reminded. “Those street runners missed everything.” He closed a dusty book and set it back on the table.  
“Pressing case, is it?”  
“They’re all pressing until they’re solved.” You sighed and continued to watch Sherlock work. His phone chimed again, and you pushed yourself up to go see who was so anxious to text.  
“I’ll just get it, then?” you stated as you went to pick up his phone and check his messages.  
Almost immediately, your expression changed to a look of partial fear as you saw the text. You looked up and walked over to Sherlock, holding out the phone for him to take.  
“Here,” you said, trying to catch his attention.  
“Not now, I’m busy,” he informed you.  
“Sherlock, please.”  
“Not now,” he said, sterner. You closed your eyes and let out a breath.  
“He’s back,” you told him. That was enough to make him look up from his work and down to the phone in your hands.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock took the phone from your hands and looked at the message.  
“Come and play. Tower Hill. Jim Moriarty x.” After reading, he lowered the phone, a distant and knowing look on his face.  
***  
You, Sherlock, John and Lestrade were fixed in front of a screen playing security footage.  
“That glass is tougher than anything,” Lestrade stated as you fixed your eyes on the screen with interest.  
“Not tougher than crystallized carbon,” Sherlock replied.  
“He used a diamond,” you reminded them. Sherlock pressed his finger to a button, which played back the footage. On the screen, Moriarty went backwards at breaking the glass until it was back in place.  
Get Sherlock.  
It wasn’t long before the news made the papers and the news. The words “Get Sherlock” were everywhere. The crime of the century. The trial for him was to be held at Bailey, and you were attending.  
John stood in front of the mirror, throwing on his suit jacket and straightening his tie. Sherlock buttoned up his simple black jacket, opting not to wear his coat and scarf. You, on the other hand, were all ready in a simple outfit. Maybe not as professional as you should have been, but it was all you could find in the mess of your clothes that you had found, strangely, in Sherlock’s room.  
You three rushed down the stairs, only stopping at the door to face the two men.  
“Ready?” you asked them. John nodded and you heard, “Yes,” from Sherlock. Seconds after, the door opened and lights flashed everywhere, voices rang out with questions as cameras clicked. John held up and hand as he lead you and Sherlock to the car that was waiting for you on the curb. After the three of you squeezed into the backseat, you in the middle, the car sped off to court. It was quiet for some of the ride before John spoke.  
“And remember-” he started, but was cut off.  
“Yes,” Sherlock assured.  
“Remember-”  
“Yes.” John closed his eyes and looked to you for help. You nodded and turned to Sherlock.  
“Just remember what they told you,” you said. “Don’t be all clever, keep it short and simple.”  
“Confident the star witness is charged to come across as intelligent,” Sherlock replied as he looked out the window.  
“Intelligent, right,” John cut in. “Let’s give smartass a wide berth.” A moment of blissful silence filled the back seat.  
“I’ll just be myself,” Sherlock shrugged. You rolled your eyes.  
“Are you even listening to us?” you asked. No answer. It was pointless trying to get through to him.  
***  
“A consulting criminal?” one of the questioners asked. You sat next to John in the small section of people in the bleacher-like seats. In all honesty, you had no idea how a courtroom worked.  
“Yes,” Sherlock replied for his podium at the front.  
“Your words. Can you expand on that answer?”  
“James Moriarty is for hire.”  
“A tradesman?”  
“Yes.” You turned your gaze to Moriarty, an amused look on his face.  
“But not the sort who’d fix your heating?”  
“No, the sort to plant a bomb or stage an assassination, but I’m sure he’d make a pretty decent job of your boiler.” That struck a small chord in the court. You chuckled and looked back to Sherlock, who held a straight face as he monitored the room.  
“Would you describe him as-” the woman continued before being cut off.  
“Leading,” Sherlock interrupted.  
“What?”  
“Can’t do that. You’re leading the witness. He’ll object and the judge will uphold.”  
“Mr. Holmes,” the judge said exasperatedly.  
“Ask me how, how would I describe him?” Sherlock said. “What opinion have I formed of him. They don’t teach you this?”  
“Mr. Holmes, we are fine without your help.” You rolled your eyes. If anything, Sherlock was the cleverest person in this room. They’d be better off with his help. You heard a creaking behind you and turned to see a woman with red hair sit behind you and John. Haven’t you seen her somewhere?  
“How would you describe this man?” the woman said, catching your attention again. “His character?” You smiled, practically jumping in your seat. This might’ve been your favourite part.  
“First mistake,” Sherlock began, dramatically. “James Moriarty isn’t a man at all. He’s a spider, a spider at the centre of a web. Criminal web with a thousand threads and he knows precisely how each and every single one of them dances.” As Sherlock said this, Moriarty nodded. He knew. The woman cleared her throat and looked down at the desk to her right before beginning her questions again.  
“And how long-” she began before being cut off once again.  
“No, no, don’t- Don’t do that, that’s really not a good question.” The judge was even more annoyed at this.  
“Mr. Holmes,” he said even more sternly. Sherlock rolled his eyes.  
“How long have I known him?” he started, “Not really your best line of inquiry. We met twice, five minutes in total. I pulled a gun, he tried to blow me up. I felt we had a special something.”  
Now you were seriously fighting the urge to jump up and yell, “I ship it!” You held yourself back, doing it in your own mind before returning to the matter at hand.  
“Ms. Sorrel,” the judge asked incredulously. “Are you seriously claiming that this man is an expert? After knowing the accused for just five minutes.”  
“Two minutes would have made me an expert. Five was ample.”  
“Mr. Holmes, that’s a matter for the jury.” Sherlock paused to look at the jury.  
“Oh, really?” he said before taking a second to tilt his head down and make deductions. John, next to you, averted his eyes to the ground in frustration. What did he say? Don’t get clever. ‘Course, nothing stops Sherlock from being a smartass. “One librarian, two teachers, two high-pressure jobs, probably the city. Foreman’s a medical secretary trained abroad judging by her shorthand.”  
“Mr. Holmes,” the judge tried to get a word in, but to no avail could he stop what Sherlock had started.  
“Seven are married and two are having an affair with each other, it would seem. Oh, and they’ve just had tea and biscuits. Would you like to know who ate the wafer?”  
“Mr. Holmes!” the judge snapped. “You’ve been called here to answer Ms. Sorrel’s questions, not to give us a display of your intellectual prowess! Keep your answers brief and to the point. Anything else will be treated as contempt! Do you think you could survive for just a few minutes without showing off?” The judge yelled his last part as Sherlock pondered the situation. He took a deep breath in and...  
Wrong move for him.


End file.
